


Here I come!

by jarediscronchtastic



Series: o n e s h o t s [4]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, I'm Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, really triggery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarediscronchtastic/pseuds/jarediscronchtastic
Summary: Based on the song, "Broadway, Here I Come!" from Smash.-----On a sunny summer day, Evan, fed up with a life of distress and pain, decides upon a plan to make it all go away.





	Here I come!

When you're little, you marvel at how small the world looks when you're high, high above.  Taking an airplane, perhaps, or something far less extreme when you're in your room, looking outside.

 

Sitting there, forty feet above the ground, in the broad oak tree, the world looked small.  Not too small, but small enough. I could see over some of the other trees, the twenty-foot ones, the younger ones at ten feet, or even the saplings at just a few.  The view, all the way up here, is undeniably beautiful. That won’t change my mind, though, no, it won’t stop me.

 

I close my eyes.  The breeze runs through my hair, the sunshine warming my face.  The rough bark is almost comfortable where my hands grip it tightly.

 

I wonder if my mother will cry.  I hope she doesn’t. Or Jared, would Jared care?  No, he wouldn’t. He has his own friends, better people to be with,  _ anyone  _ is better than me.  What about the others at school?  No, probably not. They don’t see me, I’m invisible.  Nobody sees me, thus nobody would miss me. Except Mom, I guess.  Would Dad? Now,  _ that’s  _ the million dollar question.  I wonder perhaps if he would come to my funeral.  Would he even know I died? Would he know from a phone call, Mom calling him, first time in years?  Or would it be someone else? Like, “Oh, yeah, remember your son? No, not your new one, the  _ other  _ one, the one you left behind!  Yeah, Mark, no, he changed his name to Evan, yeah, anyway, he’s dead.  The idiot child you walked away from? He committed suicide. Sorry. But, hey, did you catch the game last night?”  Or maybe he’ll find out in the obituary, in his morning paper, as he sips his coffee (did Dad even drink coffee?), surrounded by his loving family, glance down and see his son’s name, the one he left over a decade ago, in black ink along with the eighty-year olds who died from heart attacks or old age.  Why am I thinking so much about Dad? He probably doesn’t give me second thought.

 

Maybe this would get me noticed.  Isn’t that strange? Doing something so drastic to get attention, attention I wouldn’t even know I’d have until it was too late?  Is that really me? Doing it to get noticed? Maybe not. Still, though, imagine, a whole article in the news about the kid who never got so much as a nod in greeting, a wave from the girl he likes who doesn’t know he exists, the kid who killed himself?  Will I become famous? Will they change my name to something cooler, change my story, make me some depressed  _ genius _ , an artist overcome with anxiety?  Will anyone even remember me? No, no, it won’t matter, I’ll just be another number, another statistic.  I’ll blend in with the others who fell to the streets, fell to the dirt from all the way up. Maybe it will just be another name amongst the others who lived long and happy lives.  Unlike me. 

 

Why am I saying that, though?  My life isn’t too bad. I have a loving mother, and even though we may not be totally financially stable, we live in a nice house, we have food, we have a car, albeit rusted and slightly dented, and I go to school, a  _ good  _ school.  So, really, what’s so bad?

 

I’m not even sure why I feel so bad anymore.  Years ago, soon after Dad left, I was diagnosed with severe anxiety.  Whatever. But it didn’t get so bad until recently. When I started having depression, the big whammy, the big deal that made Mom get even more worried, hiding sharp objects and stuff.  But all of that, all of the anxiety, all of the depression, all of the  _ pain _ , all of that will end now.  

 

Tears fill my eyes as I look down again.  No. I have to pull myself together. I can’t back out now, either.  I got this far. I’m not backing out. I’m not. I  _ won’t _ .

 

The world will be better off without another screw-up, another messed-up teen.  Better off without someone whining, someone who needs medication to function in society.  Someone who ruins lives. A burden. The world will be better off without me. 

 

I cast a final look down.  I close my eyes. Inching slowly, slowly off the branch.  A final push, that’s all it takes. That’s all it took. That’s all it took for me to be floating.

 

I’m in the air.  Leaves brush against me, but I’m falling, I’m falling down.  Falling through the sky, falling through the air.

 

The world moves in slow motion, everything is taking its time, as if to say “hey, let’s increase the time of your suffering, let’s make you have time to think about what you’re doing.”  It’s mocking me. World, here I come.

 

I wonder what people think.  If they see me falling, or if they won’t know until I’m on the ground what I’ve done, what I’m doing.  Will they mourn? Or will they cheer? Be glad the world is rid of one more ruined person, rid of one more waste of space?  Will they laugh? Point? Take photos, take photos with the corpse of the fuck-up? Post it online, gain popularity from my death?  Or will they never notice? Like in the rest of my life, never notice that I existed, never notice that I’m gone, never notice my remains?  Maybe a dog will sniff me out, some sort of fungus already growing on my dead body. Maybe nothing will happen. I’ll be left there on the ground forever.  Ground, here I come. 

 

I brace for the impact of the ground.  It looks soft, almost  _ ready  _ for me to land, ready to hold my body as I let out my last dying breath.  Here I come!

 

How am I already so close to the ground?  Did I not realise it? My eyes are opened, when did they open?  I close them again, taking a deep breath in. In and out, in and out.  Here I come.

 

I have seconds left, seconds, seconds, seconds.  But didn’t I always? As I was falling, it’s been seconds, so, so fast.  The ground is closer, closer, closer. Here I come.

 

Did I matter, though?  Was my existence, did it have a purpose?  Other than to just simply exist? Just to give my Mom a son?  I see the ground, so, so close. Here I come.

 

But it doesn’t matter.  There’s no time to go back.  No time to think I’ve mattered in my life, no time to think.  No time for apologies, no time for goodbyes, no time for life.  I’ll never find out just what I mean to anyone. To Mom, to Jared, to Dad.  Hell, even to Zoe. No, there’s no time. No time. No time, because I’m here.  I’m at home on the ground. Here I am.

 

I am here.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.


End file.
